Prime Evil
by Chrome
Summary: It did, however, dawn on him that each of these humans had something he did not: a past. A Vergil centered fic. Vergil and Lady pairing!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N****: Hi there! In the process of writing my other story, Primal, I felt the need to write something a little lighter. This is basically a story revolving around Vergil. It takes place after DMC1, so probably a few months after Nelo Angelo (or Nero Angelo, however you prefer) was defeated by Dante. There's a little touch of humor from time to time and a bit of heart as well.**

**It will be a Vergil/Lady fanfic as for no apparent reason, I just love the idea of that pairing. Dante and others will of course appear. With nothing else to say, thank you for reading and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own Devil May Cry or any of its characters.**

**Prime Evil: Chapter One

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He'd walked around this city for days. That's all he knew. He'd walked and slept and ate. Beyond that, there was nothing.

Cold rain sprayed from an ugly sky, the sun covered over by a dull and lifeless blanket of gray. His hair was in his face, scratchy and irritating. The idea of pushing it back seemed pointless, the heavy, fat drops of rain undoubtedly just planning to put it back into his eyes anyway.

He didn't know his name. He didn't know his past. He didn't know why he resembled these creatures or why they often seemed to speak at him. He didn't know how he loosely knew their language or why he never felt compelled to answer them. He just knew by the irritation that occasionally pulsated through his guts that he didn't like them. He didn't like these creatures and he didn't like this godforsaken island they called Ireland.

The rain came more often than it went, always a dank, horrible fog concealing whatever lay beyond the sea. At first he had believed it was hell, finding himself in the belly of a stinking ship. After escaping, he was sure it was hell, wandering around aimlessly through the darkness of a city with only the catcalls and belligerent hollers of drunks to keep him company.

So for days he'd simply walked. When his stomach demanded it, he'd eat, finding quickly that these creatures responded quite negatively when you barged into their homes and sat down in front of their meals.

On his first day, a female creature had even banged him repeatedly over the head with what they called a "stereo", the awful device screaming louder than even she could. Faced with the demands of his stomach, her petulance had seemed nothing more than a fly knocking on the outside of a window, his eyes shut as he'd merely crossed his legs and aristocratically devoured her entire peach pie, one blessed bite after the other.

It was on such an occasion that it finally dawned on him that perhaps all of the attention directed his way had something to do with his choice of attire; or otherwise, lack thereof. Each creature apparently felt the need to conceal their body (however hideous they must have been) in odd pieces of cloth.

After many attempts to simply take the clothing OFF a creature and use it as his own, the man had realized it might just have been easier to walk into a room and take whatever seemed to suit him. So there he was, yet again, walking with strange pieces of cloth covering his parts, namely a tediously tight light "shirt" and thick, itchy "jeans" for his bottom half.

After a few more days, it came as a bit of a revelation to the man that he could, in fact, READ the creature's dialect, becoming increasingly disturbed when reading the cover of a piece of paper concealed in a blue, metal machine. As it seemed, the "humans" as he'd heard them call themselves, were being terrorized by a white headed, naked man carousing Dublin on a search for freshly baked pies.

A twisted creature, he'd decided to himself, were these humans and quite futile was their existence.

He'd had the displeasure of seeing their mating rituals, witnessed them first hand indeed, on some of his escapades and nearly lost his precious sustenance in the process. It seemed that the smaller, or "female", of the race would often shake her lower quarters, flick her hair and bat her eyes when signaling for a mate.

The larger, or "male", of the species would puff out his upper quarters, saying (apparently) the stupidest things that came to his mouth in order to signal his willingness to mate with the other gender. Then they would share a meal, which the man was horrified by, and saunter off to breed in the quietness of their own homes.

The man was sure it was a horrifying experience and that it was necessary to conceal the act from others. After having waltzed passed a window and seen the ritual itself, he was certain of it.

A primitive and illogical species, the humans seemed to feast mostly on liquids, at times even passing up thick, solid foods, for the dark and sometimes syrupy appeal of a "beer". It seemed that Beer was the God of the creatures as it was worshipped by nearly all. Beer was displayed on towers and on busses and nearly anywhere and everywhere a person could look.

Beer was the only thing that the humans always seemed more than willing to share, clanking their glasses of it as some sort of pointless tradition. After watching the affects of enough Beer, the man had quickly decided that it was to be blamed for the absolute insanity that the humans often displayed.

It also seemed that this idol, Beer, was to be blamed for the immense population of the humans. After drinking enough, it seemed the humans could not help but breed, dashing to one another's homes in order to do so.

The females acted stranger than ever, grabbing or groping or doing nearly anything as an attempt to find a mate. The men, undoubtedly, were even stranger, hitting other males in a display of dominance in order to win over the females.

And never was he so negatively reacted to then when in the company of those that had partaken in the worshipping of Beer. The women would stare at him, their horrible, beady eyes just gawking unapologetically. At times, they would even touch him, whispering words of appreciation meant to fool him into breeding with them.

And the men! The men would push at him, puffing out their chests and standing right up to him, apparently insulted by something that he'd done. Soon, he'd realized that it must have been his inability to make himself smaller, as the smaller of the males were usually the ones most insulted by his presence.

Finally, after enough days of traveling, the man began to understand things that had been previously unclear. He began to understand their language, though the way it was spoken made it, at times, seem unclear. He began to understand their rituals and their social means of interacting. He began to understand why they so often apologized, seeking forgiveness when they would accidentally bump into one another or other offences.

He began to understand why they said "please" and "thank you" and why they would react negatively when one would fail to use these in sentences. He began to understand their currency and the exchanges between food and "euros".

He began to realize that Beer was not their God but their incentive for GOING to God, whom they all seemed to visit quite early on Sundays and who had a few immaculately large stone homes.

He was strangely relieved to find that his observation of human females was entirely correct. They enjoyed indulging in many rituals before breeding yet always gave off signals that initialized the process. The men did not enjoy the rituals yet always gave in to receive the desired effect.

He was, however, a bit dismayed to find that his appearance always seemed to catch the females off-guard, apparently (without realizing it) signaling HIS willingness to breed with them! They would react in many different ways, coming close to him, asking him to join them in doing whatever, touching his hands and arms. Some would even touch his hair, running their little digits through the strands and always marveling.

Words like "amazing" or "beautiful" or "angel" would come and when he finally distinguished their meaning, he would stare into reflective surfaces and try to grasp why they had spoken of him so. There were just things he understood and things he did not. Some things would come to him without the need to learn and others he felt certain he would never come to know.

It did, however, dawn on him that each of these humans had something he did not: a past. They would speak of it daily to one another, and it was, in point, the mark of most of their conversations. Yet he didn't have one that could reach beyond his few days of wandering amongst them.

This perturbed the man as he would commonly be asked to recite his name and yet could never give one.

Only one day did the man's inability to give his name not deter a male human, the man staring deeply into his eyes and saying sentences that he would not forget.

"No, no," the strange creature had insisted, looking all over the man's face. "I know you! I worked with you in New York many many years ago. Don't be silly Tony!"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Many thanks to ShyAnon for the review! **

**Chapter Two**

The man had finally swallowed, staring at the smaller creature that insisted on prattling away about some incredible adventures that he had shared with this supposed "Tony". Extravagant stories of bravery and courage -much like those the man had read in fantasy books- were sputtered out, accented thickly yet much differently than the other humans around.

The man's eyebrows had furrowed together as he once more swallowed, trying to ascertain what he should do. And so for the first time, he tried to speak, the sound cracked and rough.

"You're," He closed his lips together, trying again. "You're.."

"Montoya, man, don't you remember?" The shorter man replied, gesturing wildly. "We spent weeks together going after those bastards. How's Enzo, eh? Still driving the ladies wild, I bet, and not in the good way if you know what I mean!"

His elbow went into the other man's ribs, however lightly, catching him off guard. He was startled, backing up.

"Man, are you ok? You look tense!"

The man's tongue went into his cheek, realizing that for all the observing and listening he'd done, he didn't know the first thing about speaking to another human.

"You," He began once more, relieved that Montoya had given him the time to sort out his thoughts. "You called me Tony."

"Yeah man, that's your name. Or did you forget?" Montoya laughed heartily. "What'd you bump your head or something?"

The man stood thoughtfully for a moment, gazing passed the other and searching his mind for whatever was still in there. Four days, or was it five, was the extent of his memory.

"I don't know," He said, a strange feeling of….. contentment coming over him as he realized with ease he had spoken that time.

"What do you remember?"

The man felt himself smile, or what he figured was a smile, as he had only seen others do it and never himself.

"Walking."

"Walking?" Montoya's face scrunched, pulling back slightly. "Nothing else?"

The smaller man was searching his face again, dark, thick eyes darting from head to toe. It was then that the man realized that this human was just a little bit different from the others he'd seen. For one, his manner of speaking was quite the opposite of the others, words turned over with his tongue and spoken quickly.

His skin tone was also very different, the short man covered in a tan, almost burnt color. His clothing was odd as well, very colorful and bizarre yet, strangely enough, not irritating to the man.

"You're dark." He finally said.

"What?"

"You're dark."

An odd face crossed over Montoya's features, a look that the man could simply not distinguish.

"Yeahhhh," Montoya drolled out. "I'm Mexican, I'm supposed to be darker."

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'? I'm Mexican. I'm not from here."

The words rehashed themselves through the man's mind. In his days, he had felt some emotions though truly, he couldn't usually decipher them. There were feelings he could understand as dread, as caution, as contentment and relief. He'd discovered irritation and dislike, yet this feeling was overwhelming all of them, like the feeling right after he'd eaten that silly human's pie.

"There are other islands?"

"Are you kidding me? Man, I wouldn't even be on this tiny rock if it weren't work related. How hard did you hit your head Tony? Is this some sort of a joke?"

"You're calling me Tony," The man finally said, gazing down at the other. "I don't think I'm him."

"Nah nah," Montoya insisted, waving his hand dismissively. "trust me, I'd never forget that ugly mug!"

The man assessed the situation, crossing his arms as he'd seen many of the creatures do, face twisted by deep thought. Tony. It was a good name he'd decided, though on what else he could base it, he hadn't a clue. But it sounded well enough coming from the "Mexican" and "Tony" decided it was an acceptable title indeed.

He looked upwards, scanning the buildings, the way they seemed to lurch towards the sky and the strange way he knew that despite their height, there were many far larger, recollected only in shadows that seemed to be his memory. Contentment surrounded him in waves, a feeling of accomplishment rising within. His manner of speaking had been entirely instinctual, his body arising to an occasion that his mind simply couldn't comprehend.

Garbage slowly drifted in white sheets down the roads, the clatter of a thousand footsteps, a thousand humans cluttering up the silence that might have been there. He could feel his mouth move into a frown, a scowl covering his face.

"Take me to your island." He said, looking dismally at his overcrowded surroundings, listening to the hustle and bustle and awful honking horns in the distance.

"Dude, for real, did you get hurt?" Montoya inquired once more. "It's like you don't remember anything. You don't even know who I am."

Tony looked down finally, cocking his head to the side.

"I don't know who I am."

The other smiled, shrugging his shoulders upwards.

"Easily fixed. There are enough cats around here that know enough about you to fill in any blank. We'll get in touch with Hero. Way' I see it, you two have enough history you wouldn't need to talk to anyone else. You come with me."

It was in this way that the man, Tony, found his one and only (to his recollection) "friend" as Montoya called it. It didn't take long for Tony to sense a sort of relief around the man and certainly, not much longer, to take something of a liking to the odd little creature. A comfort he had not felt began to sink in, a strange attachment and need to keep up with the other coming over him.

For as long as he could recall (which was indeed, limited) he had never spoken, nor willfully indulged in the company of humans. In Montoya, he suddenly felt the need to be around another person, walking quickly behind the other and shuffling even faster when the idea of separation even introduced itself.

Through the crowded streets they went, Montoya going on and on about past journeys and Tony struggling to recall even the most mundane meanings behind most of his words. Some things instinctually made perfect sense and not for the first time, Tony began to realize that true understanding was slowly but surely coming into progress. Days before had been spent in a fog of total chaos, confusion his only consort. Now, with each morning, he would awake to more recollection and more in-depth understanding of things that previously had seemed a mystery that could never be solved.

It was an infuriating process, patience needed where there seemed to be none.

The next day he had awaken, having slept deeper than he could remember. He stared at the ceiling, letting waves of understanding crash over him. With sleep came a calmness and rationality that had been missing previously. The last few days had seemed so insane, lost in misunderstanding and confusion.

Now though, he stared upwards, sorting out his dreams and his memory. He still hadn't a clue if he really was this Tony guy, or whether or not he'd created these terrific memories with Montoya. He didn't know if he was capable of doing the great "legendary" things that Tony had done or be capable of this immaculate good that Tony demonstrated.

He stared at the tiny specs, clots of white texture above him. Everything here had a purpose. Everything here had a place. Yet did he? It seemed that despite his new found clarity, he was still at odds with the world. Mothers had daughters. Sisters had brothers. Every family had a black sheep. Yet in that, there lay a balance, a necessity for everything.

Everything had its place and purpose in the world except for him. He had no past and the one created for him seemed…. off.

Sorting through what Montoya had told him, Tony was an immense, violent force for the side of good. He slayed the things that went bump in the night, doing so with no intention of having anything returned as a result. He killed the bad and saved the good, a real Saturday morning cartoon hero.

It just didn't seem to fit him. For one, he didn't particularly like any of these humans. They seemed awkward and useless to him, irritatingly petty and annoying. They were more obstacles in his way than creatures with real purpose and more than a few times, he'd merely batted them towards one side of the other just to be freed of their constant idiocy. He just couldn't imagine going out of his way to save them, lest there simply be more to grate at his nerves.

In fact, it had only served to excite him when Montoya had gone on and on about the presence of Demons, of how the humans were blissfully unaware of the world around them. If you were to ask him, it seemed a necessary evil, the over-populated earth choosing its own savior in the form of hideous, flesh hungry beasts.

It had only been when Montoya had presented pictures that Tony began to accept the possibility of his former life. The man that often stared back at him from reflective surfaces was caught in a frame, eyes closed and head thrown backwards in laughter. His arm was wrapped around Montoya, the two polar opposites; Montoya being short and darker complected and the other being this gargantuan, silver haired creature.

"This is another one of you and Hero," Montoya had slipped another shiny piece of paper towards him. A more sober looking Tony gleamed back at him, the look of somberness more recognizable as his own. Clutched in his arms was a female, one much more attractive to the eyes than most he'd seen.

Her hair was dark and curly, childlike almost as it innocently wrapped around her green eyes.

"You two were an item." Montoya had told him.

He hadn't understood what that had meant at the time, only awakening to the full understanding that an "item" meant that they'd mostly likely participated in the act of breeding together. The concept was overwhelming, his eyes looking for anything to take THAT thought away.

He glanced at the room around him, taking in its simplicity. Rays of light beamed in lines over the ceiling, the sun low to signify early morning. Gold flecks of dust crowded around the areas that the sun came in through the shutters, dancing lazily together.

Had he ever felt such peace as he did then, lying uselessly amongst thick covers? Every day had been spent on the journey to avoid humans and feed himself. Today though, he'd awaken with the sun rather than the demands of his body, gazing at the ceiling as if it'd give him answers.

Time, he told himself, time.

Yet even in time, it served only to remind him of his obvious difference from the creatures that surrounded him. He would watch with curiosity as humans interacted with each other, their freedom, their smiles, their simple act of touching each other without the absolute need to do so.

Smiles. Yes, smiles indeed became things of mystery to him, his own rarely ever gracing the world around. He would stare into mirrors, willing it so, willing his own face to match that which beamed at him from pictures. He would stare so hard, wanting the sudden miracle of a full, hearty laugh to instantly appear, his head thrown back with such ease.

But it never could. Instead, a cynical, frightening look would polish itself over his mouth, fake and somehow…..somehow evil.

While this "Tony" seemed to lighten the world around him, the man in the mirror gave off only one definite impression: coldness.

Days wore on and yet memories never joined them. Though interactions became less tedious and simple understanding of terms and phrases became easier, Tony noticed only more and more that he wasn't like these humans.

For instance, his flesh healed at amazing rates, his eyes turning into saucers the first time he'd cut himself and the skin sewed itself almost instantly.

It had been a weird moment, he decided, an almost depressed reaction to his inability to truly grasp who he was.

He'd stood in the midst of Montoya's kitchen, the other man out and about trying to get contacts (anyone that might have known enough about Tony to provide information). He'd just stood there for a moment, hands on the kitchen sink as he'd watched that horrible face that stared back from the window. Darkness provided a grand reflection, the thing gazing back appearing monstrous in its perfection.

All humans possessed some mark of adolescence, some characteristic or "flaw" that proved them to be such. Yet he had none of those. Painfully perfect skin was stretched over features that were simply too flawless, as if some fanciful human had painted their idealistic version of a man.

He'd stared into his own eyes, lost in the impression they gave. Was it depth he saw? Or was it emptiness? Was there more? Or was it simply nothing?

On a sick whim he'd grabbed for a butcher's knife, enraged at this inhuman thing that served as a shell for whatever mystery he truly was. He'd cut into his own palm, watching as the thick blade sliced deep, nearly severing the hand in two.

The blood was red, just like any humans and for but a second, there was the sensation of gratefulness, of perhaps silliness that he imagined it'd be anything but. And then the blood had clotted almost instantaneously, thick and stringy before pulling itself together, the flesh around the gash healing before his eyes.

It was also on such an occasional, however dismal, that he decided to test such abilities. Thankful that Montoya was away, he'd crawled up a building, finding that with ease he could yank the weight of his own body over floor after floor. Like a spider, he'd grabbed onto window panes, pulling himself upwards with the same ease he would walk down the street.

Reaching the top of perhaps one of the tallest buildings within the area, he'd surveyed his surroundings, watching a thousand lights below glitter just as intently as the thousand stars above did.

It was without the least amount of fear that he gazed downwards, finally grasping with certainty that he was something else. No fear buzzed through his system, no prod of mortality as he slowly closed his eyes and drifted downwards. With no sense of inevitable fatality, he'd flown face-first down, his hair being pulled by the wind as he soared through it.

And he had landed, as softly and as surely as one would jump to the bottom step of a staircase, his body never even aching upon impact. Crane after crane he'd crawled, wanting the next one to be different somehow.

Ireland, he'd realized, was an island of cranes, of new growth and new buildings, each one located in dreadful parts of town. Yet he never felt fear of the men around him, never feared the seedy characters that watched with beady eyes as he crossed their section of the world.

He never even cared what they thought, never minded their hushed gasps when he would throw his arms to the side and drift over the edge of the crane, dropping soundlessly from the sky. He didn't even mind when they'd fear him, in fact, might have oddly indulged in it when they'd run from him, eyes wide and mouths shaped in horrified 'o's.

But through it all, Montoya became not only his sanity but his humanity as well. His tie to the outside world, Montoya insisted on taking him amongst the humans, might have even gained some humor out of Tony's attempts.

For one, his wording of things was, in Montoya's frank opinion "fucked up and weird".

Attending 'pubs' nearly every night (and certainly to Tony's disdain at first) he had to be repeatedly scolded for his blunt, yet honest, way of speaking. Mocking laughter had hurt his pride when he'd walked out the front door of a pub without a word, Montoya following and inquiring as to what he was doing.

Cock in hand, Tony had replied that he needed to "let out", peeing on a random car. Eyes the shape of dinner plates had met his gaze, Montoya at first gawking and then quickly ushering him back inside and introducing him to a "bathroom", though why it was called a "bathroom" or "restroom" instead of a "pissing room" was entirely beyond the taller man.

"I've seen many humans do it," Tony had spat, staring dismally at the porcelain device that insisted on swirling his urine around repeatedly.

"Pee on cars?" Montoya had laughed again. "Yeah, just drunks."

An eyebrow raised on Tony's face without his mind telling it to do so before hand, trying to understand this term "drunks".

He was much later introduced to the idea when Montoya had damn near force fed him enough beer to douse one hundred cars in piss. He'd rested his head over his arms, the tiny room swirling around him. Oddly enough, despite the way the room tilted to the right and the left when he would stand, peace and tranquility lazily swam through his veins, a slight smile overwhelming his mouth.

Tony analyzed the other's face, never having realized that although most of these creatures either irritated or disgusted him, Montoya's features were comely and inviting. High eyebrows over syrupy, honey colored eyes and a smile that seemed permanently attached to his face, Montoya was a pleasant human to look at. Tony also began to comprehend this word "friendship" with which the other referred to him as, noting that it was a positive title.

In alcohol, he felt peace. In soberness, he felt overwhelmed.

The room around seemed even smaller, low ceilings and comfortable sofas seeming to mold together, squashed down by many humans delving into their beers and into meaningless conversations he didn't understand nor wish to. The door would occasionally open and close, some leaving, some going.

It was in this tranquility that Tony decided to voice a question that had perplexed him for many days.

"How do you know I'm him?"

"Huh?"

Tony closed his eyes, an eerie sensation of what might be considered fear attempting to stifle his drive.

"How do you know I'm Tony?"

Montoya had looked at him with confusion, understanding quickly following.

"You still don't think you're him."

Tony gazed around, swallowing hard as he gazed at these humans, trying with all his might to appreciate them the way he must have at some point before losing his memory.

"I don't think ….." He paused. "I think if I was once him, that man is gone now."

Silence only served to vex him more, his face over his knuckles as he, for the thousandth time, prayed for even a single memory to surface. Yet he was diving through an abyss of emptiness, searching for even a bottom and finding that there was just nothing there.

"Why do you think that way? You look just like him. You're strong just like him. He was a great man, IS a great man."

"I am not a great man." Tony said sharply, knowing that his eyes had hardened, knowing that it could possibly frighten Montoya or any of the other humans that glanced his way. He knew without even needing a mirror that his pupils had shrunken, glassy white irises unnatural in a porcelain carved face.

He swallowed once more, closing his eyes and willing himself to calm, to remain rational.

"I see these humans," He began softly, eyes still closed. "and I hate them. I hate their sight, I hate their smell, I hate the way they stare at me. I look at children and I feel nothing more than sickness, detesting the fact that in a few short years, they'll be just as insolent as the ones around them.

"I hate mothers, I hate daughters, I hate brothers and I hate fathers. I watch them in parks, I watch them in stores, I watch them doing nothing at all and it makes me want to vomit. I want nothing more than for your loathed "Demons" to surface and kill them all and I want nothing so much as to watch them do it."

He opened his eyes, ignoring the priceless stare of his consort, ignoring the fact that the man's mouth was dangling open in horror of everything he said.

"I am not your precious Tony," He spoke again, teeth grinding in his mouth. "I am not some fucking boy scout, some savior of humanity. If I had the incentive to do so, I'd burn this entire world to the ground and refuse to even piss on the ashes for fear one of them might just survive as a result."

With that he'd gotten to his feet, turning away from his 'friend' and heading towards the door. Cold wind had hit his face, a scowl creeping over his features at the dastardly weather that surrounded his being with fog and bone chilling humidity. God how he suddenly hated his very existence.

"Tony, wait!" Montoya was calling, apparently unaware of the mood he'd suddenly sunk into. "Tony."

"I'm NOT him!" The taller man spat, surprised at the simple strength with which he was spun around to face the other.

"Yes. You. Are." Montoya spelled it out, tongue nearly as lashing as the other's had been.

The silver head bowed in distress, fingers wrenching through it in frustration.

"You know how I know? Look at me." Montoya grabbed his face almost painfully, staring up at him with a look of intent that silenced Tony's disputes. "You know how I know? Because the first time I saw you, I knew just by the way you moved it was Tony. You walk as if the whole wide world is just sitting on your shoulders. Like everything around you is there because you will it to be.

"I look in your eyes, even when you don't know I am, and I see exactly what I saw so many years ago. You have been lost long before your memory went Tony."

The man's mouth tightened, eyebrows furrowing.

"I don't understand."

"Your mom died when you were a kid. Your dad left long before that. You were given strength that this world has never seen before. You were an orphan that no body understood or even wanted. You scared everyone around you even when you were trying to save them.

"Your step-dad, look at me," He grabbed the other's face once more. "Your step-dad beat you so hard when you were a kid that you ended up killing him."

"Why are you telling me this," Tony hissed, wrenching free of Montoya's grasp.

"Because you wanted to know why you're so fucking lost," Montoya poked him hard in the chest. "You don't even know your past and you're the first one to insist it isn't so just because you find everyone around you to be irritating. It isn't THEM you don't understand Tony. It's you!"

So he remained quiet, searching the other's words, searching for dishonesty that wasn't there. Montoya was absolutely right. He hadn't the faintest clue who he was, only that this idealistic version that everyone adored wasn't correct. Yet maybe in that, he understood something he hadn't thought of previously; as much as he had no idea who he was, there was a distinct possibility that even those around Tony hadn't a clue either.

"You are a great man," Montoya finally spoke, staring up at him. "You are a good man. I don't say that because I knew you and what you did way back when. I say that because when I look at your eyes, fucking freaky as they are, I see that you're a good man. I always did and I always have. Now," He smacked the other in the arm. "let's go inside and get toasted."


	3. Chapter 3

"Item."

An "item".

"Tony" stared dismally once more at the ceiling, angrily sorting through his memories knowing quite well he would never find what he was looking for. It was a tedious process yet he found himself nauseously doing it every day.

It was like hell, a hell of sorting through endless piles of blank papers and fully expecting that he'd magically pick one up with writing on it. But wasn't that the definition of insanity; doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?

Maybe he was insane. Tony nodded to no one in the darkness. Yes, maybe that was the truth of it all in the end. He was an insane person with no memory and was desperately trying to pull together some remnant of a life WITH sanity.

His thoughts turned once more to the word "item" Montoya had spoken about, his tongue instantly going to his cheek.

This "Hero" person was as much of a mystery to him as he was to himself. Montoya had spoken so briefly of her and yet, if she and him were an "item" wouldn't that put her at a very central state in his story? There had been an unease in the dark man, his eyes darting anywhere but Tony when he'd quickly spoken of her.

To the man once known as "Tony" she'd been a very center piece in his puzzle, fighting by his side. "Tony" had chosen to spend his hours with her, even chosen to take pictures with her. Unfortunately, the man that now was called "Tony" simply couldn't understand why any of these humans or otherwise would ever go out of their way to spend the waking hours with one another.

For the first time though, Tony felt the oddest sensation. Truly, it was very irritating to have no memory. Even more so, it was straight obnoxious to be called a name that, somehow, he just knew wasn't his own. Yet, for the first time, Tony admitted that there was truly something tragic that, where perhaps memories of something OTHER than coldness had been, there were none anymore.

For the first time, he really was curious to know how it felt to crave a connection with another person.

Where this "Tony" of old burned brightly, Tony now felt he emanated only dull coldness, the sensation one might feel when the hair stood up on their arms yet couldn't find the source of it. For a second, he felt the ill sensation of jealousy, that, what was once warm, was now quite empty.

He recalled even more, the day that Montoya had taken him to the sea, his eyes spotting a tiny creature carrying something on its back. Montoya had spoken before Tony had even had to ask, informing him that it was a shell that the crab carried; his home.

"Then what are all of these shells for?" He'd asked, pointing to countless shells not in use.

"Maybe the little guy already lived in those ones," Montoya had laughed, not realizing his counter-part didn't join him. "Maybe he got bored with them."

'Maybe that's what I am,' he thought to himself. Maybe he was just a shell, where a life had once lived. And then that life had gotten bored with him and moved on, leaving him just a useless, lifeless little insignificant shell.

Dismal.

Suddenly his thoughts were pulled from him, the sound very far off but well heard by his heightened senses.

It sounded like the bursting of concrete at first, though the sound oddly enough seemed to be coming up rather than something being smashed down. The sounds of creaking came next, almost seeming at first to be the movement of one of the many cranes in Ireland, yet at this time of night, not a likely scenario.

Tony was out of his bed quicker than he'd even realized, bouncing unnaturally on one foot as he yanked his pants on. Forgetting even his own shirt, he threw himself out of his window, heart beating furiously.

It was truly a night of firsts, his blood pulsing like liquid ice through his veins, his eyes even seeming to glow, turning the world a shade of haunting blue from his perspective. The cool wind kissed his skin as he tore through it, teeth grinding in his mouth and a swimming feeling of delight completely taking over any sanity that might have been there.

He was absolutely fucking excited and he had no idea why.

The world spun around him, like he was running in warp speed, his vision stretched so that he could see for miles, something that he'd never tested up to this point. The wind whipped his hair furiously as he ripped through it, his face stretched with the craziest of smiles.

He arrived at the scene, the depictions of hell and damnation, he'd read of in the church, hardly doing this justice. Screams met the air, the sound of men and women clashing into one high pitched screech, the sounds of the damned and the dying.

It was like a volcano had erupted around them, humans scurrying like rats into their alley ways to escape the monstrous fiends that were being birthed from the ground.

Truly, Tony had never seen anything quite like them, the word "devils" coming into his mind and his thoughts agreeing that the name fit them quite well. They were awkward and clumsy, moving like the walking dead with sporadic steps that seemed to take all the effort in the world. They more convulsed than chose to walk, their very skin creaking with the movement, stretched like dead matter over broken bones.

Huge swords and scythes reached over their heads and it seemed the only time they reacted quickly was to swing their weapons, blood and flesh spraying the air as a human female was ripped completely into two parts.

Her top half landed dangerously close to Tony's bare feet, to his disgust the dainty, bloodied hands actually reaching out in one last effort to touch him. He cringed as he kicked her away, gaining his smile back when one of the devils came slowly up to him.

He fully imagined the creepy little nuisance expected that he'd run or plead for his life like the other humans were content on doing. It made his pulse pound all the heavier when the smallest look of unease came over the monster's hideous features, Tony cracking his neck to the side as he took one small step towards it.

Tony's relationship with violence began right then, his heart beating with what almost sounded like delight in his ears. He even laughed along with it, eyes bright with his own brand of humor.

The photo of himself with his head thrown back in laughter flashed into his mind and it made him all the more gleeful.

'Ah,' He thought to himself. 'So that's it!'

Weaponless, save for himself, he went, what Montoya would later call, "bombs over Baghdad" on the little fuckers. Putrid flesh and blood sprayed into their air until it literally fell like raindrops back down on his flesh, his beautiful white hair diluted with it.

Gangrene flesh sank under his knuckles, bursting with yellowish fluid and bright red blood. Stealing one of their scythes, he made quick work out of the others, laughing like an absolute lunatic at all the delightful ways he could kill them.

In fact, he realized quite quickly he didn't actually even want to kill them. Truly, he didn't want them to die! He wanted mostly to torture them, to reign down every sick fury and twisted idea he could. He wanted to keep them for days, to understand better why it was that though they were dead, they made him feel more alive than he ever had.

Suddenly, as much as he was reigning down death, he was starting to truly love life!

He could have kissed a few of them in the revelation, if the thought didn't instantly turn his stomach, and he lost a touch of smile until he kicked another creature in the face, the head exploding on contact.

As the last one fell, Tony felt nothing so crippling as the feeling of disappointment, fully intent on reviving the thing (no effort spared) just to feel the rush of killing it again. He even fell to the pavement next to the writhing monster, clutching it's "hand" for a moment and trying to sooth it.

He knew his eyebrows were upright, a sad look covering his features as he basically "cooed" to the hideous thing, running his fingers gently over its face; that is before laughing like a psychopath as he rammed his fingers into its eye sockets, successfully ending whatever it was that this thing called a life.

He sat there still, feeling real, fresh raindrops begin to fall on his back. His breath panted in front of his eyes, Goosebumps gracing the flesh on his arms and chest though the cold hardly seemed to bother him. His hair fell into his eyes as he stared at the empty ground where his precious "friend" had once been.

With a chilling grin, he thought to himself that he should truly send a Christmas Card to the thing, never having felt so truly alive than he had because of this attack.

"What is it about you?" He whispered, eyelids blinking lazily as he stretched his hand across the pavement. "What do you do to me?"

Had he even whispered aloud that he was truly in love with the demon, it wouldn't have surprised him much. It was as though life itself had been breathed into him and as much as he hated to admit it, it slowly was seeping out once again, leaving him a shallow shell once more.

It almost felt cruel, in that he felt like he'd seen heaven only to be denied at the gates. Why show him true beauty only with the intention of taking it away almost instantly afterwards?

"Heads-up!" Came a scream, followed by the earth suddenly shaking all around him.

Once more, as though heaven was answering his prayers, the blue fire soared inside Tony, his panted breaths tainted with the color as he poured air out of his lungs. His very veins burned with fire, a fire so hot to the touch that it almost felt cold.

He was forced to jump backwards as the concrete he had been lying on disintegrated, a large, bulbous head birthing from the earth itself. It was by far the smelliest thing he'd encountered, black flesh and magma for blood coming into view.

"Vigil," the loud, horrible voice quaked the ground, Tony's eyes narrowing as something inside him churned with something akin to recognition. "Viiiiiigil!"

"Yeah yeah," Came a voice to his right, his head spinning. "we'll throw you a candle-light vigil later!"

To his right she stood, arms extended to her sides with long swords that were literally attached, beautiful curly hair whipping around her head. Though in the picture Hero's hair appeared black, in this light, it soared with the color of blood, intensified by haunting green eyes. Dark leather wrapped in circular motions down her body, patches of exposed skin coming into view.

She turned for a short moment to glare at him, turning just as quickly back to the monster that, oddly enough, seemed to be having a bit of trouble freeing itself from the ground and was taking quite a time to do so.

Black nails reached out of the earth, sharp like talons as the monster lifted them and then let them sink down towards Tony and Hero, the two narrowly avoiding the attack that cracked the pavement in two. Tony had but to jump backwards, soaring twenty feet through the air. Hero, dodged by rolling sideways, hair littered with chards of concrete and even bits and pieces of humans and monsters.

Tony caught himself, in that flash of a moment, admiring her skill, admiring the woman that he'd stared so often at in a picture, yet was taken back as the beautiful girl came to life before his eyes. Clad in black leather and sky high heels, she literally jumped on the demon's head, riding the thing while pummeling it with her elongated swords. She even clutched onto it's "eyebrow" soaring downwards to deliver a few blows right into the monster's eyeball.

It screamed at the attack, claws desperately trying to pry her away, the very sound pushing the hair on Tony's head back over his brow. He even caught himself laughing suddenly, watching as this tiny little lady unleashed holy hell on the unsuspecting creature!

"Uhhh, some help?" She yelled, delivering a monstrous kick into the fiend's face. "Anytime now!"

He grabbed a scythe, smacking it down over the devil's head, earning what sounded like a very peevish scoff from Hero.

"Dante you idiot!" She kicked off from the demon's head, landing with a back flip right next to Tony. "You know you can't use that weapon against him!"

She received only a blank stare.

"You can't use the 'dead's' weapons against this guy!" She grabbed at her ankle, pulling a gun from its holster and shoving it rudely into his hand. "God you're a moron!"

Tony knew his eyebrow had to be touching his hairline, every bit of him wanting to smack the little snot for such a rude barraging of totally unnecessary insults. Instead, he aimed the gun straight at her face, feeling a smile stretch once more over his features.

"What'd you call me?" He whispered, lowering his head and moving closer to her.

He felt, more than knew, how to use the weapon she'd given him, knowing somehow that, at one point, he'd had to have encountered something like it.

"Now's not the time," Hero answered soberly, staring with disbelief at his face. There was even a slight twinge of fear laced in her words, Tony admitting that he preferred her speaking that way to him.

He turned towards the demon, jumping up to spray bullets into its unhindered eye, receiving the sweetest of screams as it writhed back and forth, still apparently caught in between the ground and the rest of the world. It slashed at him wildly, but to no avail, only having it's right arm taken away as he literally pulled it from it's socket.

Peevishly, and much to his delight, he threw the huge appendage at the female, laughing as it toppled her over, high heels and leather flying.

It took next to nothing to finish the demon off, Tony ending its life quickly as his love affair with it had grown cold over time; that and he wished to simply be done away with the smell of what he could only equate with burnt hair. It bubbled and screeched as it died, burning into a pile of tar before seeping back into the earth from where it'd come.

Tony turned and laughed harder than he could ever recall having laughed, spying Hero and all her precious outfit positively COVERED in black, sticky filth. It clung to her hair even, stringy bits of funk flying in the wind, tangled with blood and acidic raindrops.

Her face was priceless, eyebrows stitched together as she gathered her footing, arms flying wildly as she tried to flick the gunk away. It seemed though, the harder she tried, the more the fluid seemed to hold on, Tony laughing so hard his stomach actually ached with it.

The sky above cracked with lightening, rain pelting down like a monsoon around them. Tony had looked above for but one second before realizing Hero had covered the distance between them, her gunky, black funk covered hand covering his whole face.

She smacked him good and hard and harder than he'd ever been smacked, to his knowledge, his beautiful face now demolished by demon goo. It took him so by surprise that he didn't even return the favor, gasping with shock that she still stood there, eyes burning into him, daring him to try.

After all she'd just seen, after all she'd just witnessed, this crazy fucking female was not one bit afraid of him.

"You're such a dick Dante." She spat.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Just to clear up any misunderstandings, the Hero in this story isn't Lady. Hero is her own character (I know I know I don't care for OC's either but bare with me). Lady will be making her entrance soon. I just really wanted to explore people's reactions to Vergil so that I can kind of see the differences between the two. **

**So to reiterate, this IS a Vergil/Lady pairing. The main character is NOT Tony or Dante. It's Vergil. Thanks for reading!**

A very indignant "uh!" was all that escaped Tony's mouth, eyes darting violently back and forth to each of Hero's eyes. He simply could not believe that (while the disheveled appearance of his face was his main concern) that this tiny little woman had nearly knocked him on his ass with one hit!

His knees had literally buckled slightly under him and his visual balance was still temporarily out of order.

Even more unfathomable was the fact that this idiot creature was glaring just as fiercely right back into him, daring, just DARING him to hit her.

Without knowing precisely why, Tony knew that for no apparent reason, hitting this pathetically weaker individual would give him no pleasure and so he stayed his hand, again, for no apparent reason.

Could morals not remembered still exist in a person?

And then his mind instantly cleared, realizing that not only had this woman insulted him, she'd also called him by a new name. A decidedly more ….. fitting new name, he decided to himself.

Something though, still felt incredibly off and without speaking to the wretched little snot, he turned on heels and proceeded back to Montoya's, knowing of course, she was following at her own pace.

"Dante?" Montoya's eyebrows furrowed slightly, scratching his head as he tilted it sideways. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," Hero pointed to herself, rolling her eyes as if to suggest that if ANYONE in this awful planet should know, she would. "Now what the hell is going on? What's wrong with him?"

The new "Dante" once more let out a scoff, crossing his arms in order to keep them from clobbering her.

"He has no memory," Montoya said simply enough. "I didn't believe it at first either but no kidding, he's a blank slate."

Hero's eyes became dangerous for a second, 'Dante' feeling very distinctly that he was the only one who had caught it. In fact, he suddenly knew that she wanted to hit him again, gaze burning just furiously enough that Montoya came to stand in between them, hands out to separate the two.

It was then that "Dante" realized a very serious and undeniable fact: This woman HATED his fucking guts!

In the coming days, while "Dante" learned more and more about himself, he seemed to also learn -with concrete evidence- that Hero truly wanted to kill him.

Perhaps it was animalistic instincts that leveled this idea with him, but with certainty when he'd catch her looking at him, he knew that had she the power, she probably would have used it.

Dante, the man learned, was indeed Tony, his two aliases. Memory loss did not seem to be a stranger (if Hero's words were correct) and after learning of a much different heritage than the one he'd initially accepted, Tony became Dante, a wily hunter of demons.

Hero was loathed to speak to him and mainly spoke to Montoya, the other occasionally catching "Dante" up in the matter.

After a while though, the man began to distinctly decide that this was how children behaved, seeking Hero out one morning to establish, why it was, in fact, that she hated him so deeply. He was predictably met by a certain finger and a lace of curses he wouldn't even repeat to Montoya, the look on "Dante's" face so indignant and annoyed that the Mexican man nearly fell on the floor laughing.

"I don't see what's so funny." The man growled, looking anywhere but his friend, a blush of exasperation coming over his cheeks. "I don't understand why I'm being punished by this horrible woman for things I cannot even recall!"

"I know, I know," Montoya slightly sobered, pulling himself up into proper sitting position on his chair while wiping a few stray tears at the corner of his eyes. "But man you know that old saying, 'Hell hath no fury….." He was met by a blank stare. "Like a woman scorned?"

"That's stupid." Was Dante's answer, an eyebrow curved self-righteously at his friend.

"Maybe so, but I think you're suffering it. I'm sorry bro but you have a lot to answer for when it comes to that one." Montoya sighed. "And if you want the full story, you won't get it from me. You gotta go to the source and in order to do that," His eyes glimmered with a smile. "I suggest you try and get real cozy with the idea of kissing up to Hero."

"Preposterous," Dante thought to himself, arms curled behind his head as he once more, stared at his all too familiar ceiling. The night was especially chilling, the air wet and muggy with the fog that shrouded the area he "lived" in.

If you could call it living, he thought dismally.

Here, when some hope had seemingly arrived, he was sitting yet again, staring at nothing with nothing to compare it with; meaning, he was no further now than he ever was.

Hero had knowledge he so desperately craved, the knowledge of who he was and knowledge of his past. Yet she held it hostage from him, so blinded by her own animosity that quite frankly, she could not see how dangerously he needed it.

He could feel the pressure build in his eyes as his vision ignited in blue, his temper growing ever so suddenly.

How dare she keep anything from him? So her pathetic little emotions were bruised. Big fucking deal. He'd be damned if he apologized for something he wasn't even sure he'd done, for a person he wasn't even sure he WAS!

He jolted out of bed, vision burning blue as he searched the house, furious to find it was absent of Hero. He felt, rather than knew, that he could sense her presence far from where he resided, head low as he exited Montoya's home.

He would throttle her, he decided, his patience worn thin. He'd grab that feisty female and shake her until every little detail fell out, at which time, he'd discard the nuisance and go on with his life. Ohhhhhhh yes, but it would be fun to finally teach the little woman who was boss, deciding that his days of being Montoya's perfect boy scout were over.

'Kissing up' be damned.

The moon finally graced the earth with its ethereal light, stretching through the fog as if reaching for his figure, eyes bright blue as though there were a flashlight behind them, scanning dangerously through the dark. His long-sleeved gray shirt clung tightly to his muscular body, black clad legs moving at an alarming rate.

He'd reached the cliffs of the island, the sound of the water pounding against rock like that of thunder below. Cold salt water sprayed through the air, the freezing temperature doing nothing to silence the hot fury beating beneath his veins.

He saw her far, far below, angry red hair flying manically around her as she stared out at the sea.

Oh, she was his alright, he smiled to himself. Montoya was no where to be found and wouldn't be able to save her with his quick humor this time. Hero was going to tell him absolutely everything or else he woul-

His thoughts went silent as he neared her, his inhuman eyes catching sight of her features far before any human's would. His testosterone level plummeted to near nothingness, his throat contorting when he realized what was transpiring.

Hero was laid down on the sand of the beach, wearing blue jeans with the knees pulled up under her chin, her oversized cream sweater wrapped around her legs. Rather than the leather clad monster he was so used to seeing, Hero appeared almost as a little girl, coddling her legs to herself and wiping at her eyes as she stared across the vastness of the sea.

Hero was crying.

Like nearly every man experiencing a woman cry, "Dante" was at a complete loss, his desire for revenge gone so quickly, he had trouble remembering why it was there in the first place. Oddly enough, as he slowly approached her, aware that he didn't want to startle the young woman, he noticed how, though the fire was gone from her stance, she looked now, more beautiful than she had in the last few days.

The anger was gone from her small features, a look of desperation and sadness so surely covering her face, he felt he didn't recognize her. He realized how large her eyes were, huge on her tiny sad face, looking so lost as she just stared forward, almost as if she was silently asking questions that weren't being answered.

Suddenly realizing he was barefoot, he padded quietly up to her, unable to speak as he simply took her in. Though it hadn't been his intention, Hero started slightly, glaring up at him before burying her face in one of her sweater covered hands, wiping her eyes.

"Oh geez Dante," She growled, though obviously embarrassed. "Don't you ever realize when you're not welcome?"

Instead of being angry though (which seemed to him to be the perfect reaction) it was though he couldn't muster up the emotion, simply sitting beside her and oddly enough, pulling his knees to his own chest.

He was sure it wasn't posture he'd ever explored before, but felt only that it was necessary as he remained still silent beside her, merely watching the waves glitter beneath occasional stars.

An enigma, he realized, was the human female. Truly a mystery of the universe, yet one he was certain no man had ever solved. How was it that one moment, this insane creature intimidated and infuriated him and the next, erupted feelings in him he had NEVER until this day experienced.

One moment he'd wanted to truly hit her. Now, though he'd never indulge in touching her, he knew that perhaps that is what a human man might have felt compelled to do. Instead though, he gave her only his silence, knowing without truly knowing, that it was necessary and perhaps, she would understand it for what it was; respectful silence.

It was in these moments he knew something as well, uncomfortable that everything was still a revelation to him. The reason this tiny woman was crying was very possibly because of him; because of what he'd done to her.

That revelation was not a welcome one and he sighed, lying his chin on his knees and letting his feathery locks of hair fall over his eyes.

"What did I do?" He whispered softly.

Hero seemed genuinely taken back, looking at him. She searched his eyes, her lip trembling slightly as she cleared her throat.

"Do you really not know?" She asked, searching him for seriousness. "Do you really not remember?"

He looked over towards her, nodding, seeing desperation all over her expression.

"I promise that I don't."

She made an exasperated noise, pushing her fingers angrily through her hair as she just looked up, shaking her head.

"Damn it Dante," she breathed, looking over at him again as she pulled herself to her feet. "It isn't what you did. It's what ya didn't do."

With that she walked away, her head held low as she wrapped her arms around herself. Her beautiful red locks danced behind her, though even in that, her spirit seemed broken or twisted, the fury just not in her that night.

'Dante' watched as she went, body feeling weak and sunken in, his eyes on the ground as he wandered home, never even needing to look up as he approached his bedroom. He sat disheartened on his bed, feelings unknown to him seeming to drain his whole body as he stared at the wall.

If this is what it felt to be human, to feel castrated by a whimpering female, it truly truly sucked!

The shadows around him shifted and he caught the scent of her perfume behind him, head staring directly in front as he felt her sigh. He knew without looking that her arms still held around her, her fingers exasperatedly going through her hair.

"If….." She sighed and began again. "If you truly don't remember then…." she paused as though not wanting to continue.

"If you don't remember than I have no right to be angry at you," She finally breathed, his eyes opening slightly more. "And I'm sorry that I kept your past from you like that." He felt her shake her head. "It was stupid and wrong and… and immature and well, I'd never want someone to do that to me so…."

She trailed off arms flopping to her sides. The man stood up to face her, startling her again slightly as she beheld his size in the small bedroom. His face, though the same as she'd always remembered, seemed more withdrawn, the smile in his eyes gone as though it'd never been there.

"I need to know," He said softly, his stare making her slightly uncomfortable as it seemed altogether alien from his nature.

"I know," Hero nodded, frowning as he uncharacteristically pushed his hair back, the look completely foreign from Dante. "Don't do that!"

She must have scared him as he jumped back from her touch, eyeing her as though she were trying to burn him. She even laughed slightly, the reaction certainly not one Dante'd ever had; he was always more than happy to let her touch him!

She gingerly, and slowly, approached the man again, softening her gaze as if to calm him as she held his arm while lifting herself on her toes to touch his hair. Hero felt her eyes close as she felt the feathery, soft locks again, the feeling, as always, as if touching an angel's wing.

She even remembered the last time she'd touched Dante's hair, still hearing his laughter in her memory.

"_Ah babe, ya know I'll always dig ya."_

_Silly man, she thought to herself. She knew she was smiling when she opened her eyes, seeing the serious face in front of her before she let her feet slide back down, leaving his hair the way he wanted it; slicked back. _

_If he wanted to change, that would be his decision. _

_The man watched her smile, watching as her eyes had closed and the small grin gracefully stretched over her mouth. He watched also as it faded into sadness, Hero still looking into his gaze with a thousand questions of her own._

"_Am I so different?" He whispered, unsure why. Her eyebrows creased and she turned her head, this way and that as if examining him. Her lips pursed slightly and once more, she reached to touch him, sliding her fingers daintily down his cheek. _

"_Yes." She whispered back. _


	5. Chapter 5

After the truce with Hero, the routine of his environment began to change. Rather than the reoccurring theme of fights that had, for a solid week, plagued the house, a calm, welcome change slowly wandered in and Montoya was loving it.

The man now referred to as "Dante" realized quite quickly that the Mexican man seemed at peace more now than ever, fretting about the house and showing them some "style" with regards to his immaculate cooking. "Dante" was pretty sure if he'd tried anything like it in this life or the last, he'd certainly would have remembered it.

Rather than the regular dirty fried fish they usually ate, with Hero in the house, Montoya's time was freed up to explore his favorite interest, the house filled to the brim with scents that "Dante" couldn't even describe.

His time now was spent mostly with Hero, learning much about his past, or, as much as she felt comfortable telling him at present. Her sentences were short and abrupt and left nearly nothing for questioning but despite this, "Dante" remained in his respectful silence mostly, allowing the bits and pieces of her story to sink in.

She told him that more or less, he wasn't entirely human, something he'd already known yet hadn't been explained. She told him the smallest amount about his mother, though she assured him, even her knowledge of that topic was limited because he (Dante as she had known him) had refused to ever speak of it.

He'd sighed aloud at that, admitting to her that it'd been a stupid decision considering his current situation.

She'd only numbly agreed, not pressing the topic.

Hero also began a training regiment for him and herself, insisting that he looked slightly gaunter than his usual self and needed to get stronger.

"No rest for the wicked," She'd playfully smacked his arm, long, red hair flying as she turned her back on him.

He'd been unsure if "the wicked" referred to the demons they were constantly having to fight or if he was "the wicked". The thought made him grin and he hid it from her, letting her quaintly lead him into a gym that she insisted an endless amount of devil hunters used when visiting Ireland.

Of course, there was a lot he initially hid from her and Montoya, his sly grin at the sound of the word "wicked" being one of them. Quite simply, there were many feelings and thoughts and even dreams he was now hiding, the amount becoming more and more vast as he slowly began to feel his body become stronger.

Aw but yes, he hid many many things from his lovely little friends, the most prominent of these being the fact that he absolutely knew he was not Dante.

As his body and strength slowly began to renew, due to his working out with Hero, he knew that parts of his mind were healing, tiny bits of his personality creeping through.

For instance, he hated the color red- (save for Hero's hair of course)- though she insisted he wore nothing to the contrary. He hated the look and the feel of that atrocious color, even when she presented him with an expensive gift of red leather pants and a jacket. Though he wore it when he knew he absolutely MUST hide the distain on his face, he cringed when he'd crept the jacket over his shoulders, grinding his teeth when he'd had to look at the reflection in the mirror.

Also, perhaps more importantly, the new "Dante" absolutely hated humans. Hated them. Despised them. Worthless, chaotic little fiends, he hated the sheer feel of their sweaty flesh when they'd bump him as they passed his way, the salty, spongy substance coming in contact with the steel of his body.

Ugh.

Pigs, he decided. They were all just measly pigs in the end. Fat, dirty little monsters, sliding up each other in a dismal cage, awaiting the slaughter with no thoughts in their empty, fat, fucking heads that they even had a CLUE how haunting their fate would be.

His eyebrows would lower when he'd feel the eyes of one them run up and down his body, knowing their dirty little thoughts in their dirty little heads behind their dirty fucking eyes.

He truly desire nothing more than to kill them just as surely as he killed their little demonic friends.

But of course, he thought with the sweetest of smiles, he never told Hero or Montoya this.

He never told his adoring little Hero that his sexual temperaments were changing dangerously, his eyes staring at her behind his hidden smile as she'd bend and thrust her body through the movements of her work out. Ah but she was so terribly unaware of his thoughts, smiling softly and sadly at him, not knowing the fiendish ideas playing out like a sick porno through his mind.

His thoughts often seemed outlandishly X rated and despite the fact that he'd found it disgusting when humans pawned at each other during sex, he found yet another secret all of his own; he loved fucking humans himself.

Sex. Could you even call it that?

It was a sick, demented, depraved love affair he indulged in, hunting them like a vampire, waiting for his stupid stupid prey to give him just one glance of appreciation.

He'd venture out when he heard the unquestionable sound of his "friends" deep breathing as they feel into R.E.M sleep, his feet never making even the slightest of sounds as he'd breathe in the darkness of the outside world, no stars in the sky as they seemed to sink away from him behind the fog.

He'd go as far as he cared to, warming up inside a posh little pub or two, thoughtfully sipping whatever beverage he felt like that night. And he'd watch the females slowly come in, knowing with out knowing why, that his appearance must have truly been something they'd never really encountered before. Such silly little pigs they were, he'd smile softly, hiding the fangs that always seemed sharper in his mouth when his hunt would begin.

Sweet little doe eyes under obnoxious bangs, the nameless girl would blink at him, caught in his blank stare as she swallowed hard at the sight. He knew, as he lowered his head, the thoughts that began to swim in her mind. Always the same thoughts.

Aw yes little one, I love you. Aw yes sweet one, I'll love you forever. Sure, you're special. Sure, you're all I'll ever need.

She'd leave the pub, his hand in hers, dragging him into her home before he'd engage in one of his new favorite hobbies. He knew at times he hurt them. He knew at times he went too far, making them do things he knew they didn't rightfully want to do.

And he didn't care.

He loved to plunge inside them, love to hear their hushed little whimpers when they tried to be brave, when they tried to pretend they liked it. He even loved the "oh yeah baby" that would come when they bite their own lips in pain, knowing his eyes were closed in the delicate pleasure of tearing inside of them.

Only, he was bit dismayed to learn that Ireland was, indeed, just as small as he'd originally thought, coming too close for comfort when he'd nearly bumped into one while in the company of Hero and Montoya.

It disturbed him later to think of how easy it had been, how thoughtless it had been, when he'd dragged the former conquest to the cliffs, listening with a very demented pleasure as she begged and pleaded with him.

Nameless, as he decided to label her in his thoughts, even tried pathetically to tear at his hands as he pulled her along the ground, twisting and turning and squealing, just like a pig. Her blonde hair was blood streaked from her own sad attempts to free herself, her wrist torn and gushing red fluid as she attempted to pry it away from his grasp.

He'd even laughed while he did it, holding her over the cliffs as she was screaming and pleading for her life, spitting out sentence fragments about her name and her child and her being "all he has". With no effort at all, he just dropped her, laughing at the look of shock in her eyes, as if she really truly believed he wouldn't do it.

He'd sighed with pleasure three days later as the humans had still never recovered her body and his sweet little secret was still safe from Hero and Montoya, though why he cared, was again, a mystery.

His strength aided in his nihilism towards human life, as he knew he was becoming stronger and untouchable to all that surrounded him.

Quite simply, he kept Montoya around for reasons still basically unbeknownst to him and Hero, for all the secrets she could POSSIBLY possess about his origination.

He would admit to himself, yet not aloud of course, that perhaps he endured them because he didn't exactly mind their company. Montoya provided PROFOUND sustenance and conversations with Hero were often revealing and educational.

He even thought it was "nice" that she believed in something in this truly awful world, her conversations usually laced with her own morals and those she claimed Dante had always possessed.

Dante had always loved humans. Dante had always fought for them. Dante would protect the human world at the price of his own life.

That was rich, the man had thought blandly.

It was after such a discussion with Hero that "Dante" had sat in his bedroom, staring at nothing and wondering a thousand things.

This Dante obviously had had something in common with him yet he doubted very much they were the same person -unless of course some unspeakable revelation had changed the old Dante dramatically into the after-birth that was him.

She'd told him of how important it was to protect humans, to respect women, all the things he had no real intention of doing. She told him of courageous stories of unbelievable acts Dante had done in order to save but one human boy.

Courage, selfless, wonderful old Dante, the man had mused bitterly. Then why exactly did she hate the bastard quite so much?

His thoughts then went to Nameless, her high pitched squeals still in his mind when he'd dropped her to her death. Shouldn't he feel bad for that? Shouldn't he confess on his knees in some God forsaken church, pleading out to no one for forgiveness?

He searched his soul and found no repentance. Quite honestly, he just didn't care.

He cared something for Hero, something he rightfully could not define or grasp and he cared if Montoya was suddenly to be vacant from his existence but that was all he could truly admit to.

As though awakening from a dream, he'd stood suddenly, curious eyes searching his room. He felt coldness around him, a pleasant feeling he seemed to understand, his eyes going quickly to the side as he realized he was standing in front of his full length mirror. His own eyes seemed to search him, a curious fact as it was like staring at someone else.

He noticed something quite disturbing suddenly and realized that the clothes he was adorning in the mirror were not his!

The figure in the mirror stood tall and strong, facial features carved like granite, blue eyes burning into him as the head was lowered. A strong mouth, lips perfectly chiseled out of what seemed stone, opened just slightly, as if breathing for the first time in a long time. Shoulders were stretched out in blue leather, the coat sinking down to the floor, just barely gliding over brutal looking black boots.

The silvery white hair was tucked back, a few pieces grazing over his eyebrows, seeming as though they could quite easily have been singed off with the fiery look in the figure's eyes.

"Dante" though, just as easily glared back, lowering his head to stare fiercely into the apparition that was himself.

"You….." The figure's voice came, oddly soft for such an intimidating looking creature. "You're not Dante."

The man smiled at this, lowering his head with a smile all his own.

"I know." He answered.


	6. Chapter 6

Her fingers tapped quickly on the keyboard of the laptop, Lady damning herself for not having taken advantage of the Keyboarding classes once offered at her private high school, what felt now like a lifetime ago. A cigarette was pinched between her right-hand fingers, a nasty, occasional habit that Dante would have openly hated yet was all but more ammo for her arsenal and she stuff the butt into her mouth angrily, inhaling deeply at the thought.

Dante.

It had been months since her phone had rung with his voice approaching on the other side. And since gaudy red fashion was of the utmost importance these days, she supposed that his wardrobe did not come complete with a cell phone holster.

It was a welcome sign though, the world of Lady and Dante having been a mass hysteria after the fall of Mallet Island which sent the once proud Devil Hunter crumpling home with a whole new BREED of baggage.

Lady knew Dante sometimes better than he'd known himself, knowing why her phone didn't ring with his number on the end. She'd known, as he came back a ghost in the body of a God, that loss had eventually wrecked the unwreckable. She'd known, as those silvery eyes that had once danced, had turned foggy as though becoming blind with grief.

Old wounds once healed had been busted open and in his victory over the demon Nelo Angelo, Dante had been wracked with the undeniable truth that he'd not only destroyed his own brother once, but now twice.

Scar tissue didn't heal as well the second time and, as he'd stared at her during battles, lost in his thoughts he'd never reveal, she'd known he was seeing her now as she truly was; temporary. Even though her age revealed her to look nothing more than early twenties, she couldn't deny the fact that she was human. She wouldn't live forever.

As she began to understand that he was pulling away, emotions within herself gave way to insecurity and in that, she began to yank closer to him.

The end was an inevitability. Dante pulled away from her because of her needing to be close when he couldn't reconcile the fact of her humanity. Lady pulled even farther because she couldn't accept the fact that above being human, she was indeed, a woman.

Emotions were odd to her. They always had been. She'd flip through magazines casually and sometimes even disgustedly, skimming through articles where it seemed that the picture perfect life could be written, described and created by an author no one had ever met.

The picture perfect dream world with love, life, children and long lived happiness. It had been a long time since Lady had EVER dreamt of a long life, instead deciding that a short, quick and dispensable existence was far more to her liking.

Perhaps farther from Lady's thoughts was the fact that selflessly, her life was bent on providing for others that which she'd accepted she would never have: a future.

The day she'd seen it in Dante had been a hard day though, seeing those beautiful silvery eyes which once danced when they came her direction, haunted and gleamed over as though Dante were a blind man. He'd smiled at her, the saddest smile she'd ever seen.

"You can't love me, huh?" He'd spoken. It hadn't been a question.

It hadn't needed an answer.

Honestly, Lady couldn't tell you exactly why she couldn't love Dante, why she couldn't return his stares of appreciation, why she couldn't kiss him back the multiple times he'd drunkenly staggered into her room, hands in her hair as he'd tried to force all the woe of the world onto her.

The only thing she could tell you (yet never would) was that towards the end, every time she looked at him, she saw his brother. Silver hair swept back, eyes looking through her, mouth set in the coldest fucking smiles she'd ever seen, it wasn't Dante that kept her tossing in her bed at night, but his long lost brother whom she hadn't seen in years.

What was the impact of that awkward encounter that kept her up, even this night, smoke burning before her eyes yet her lashes refusing to blink it away?

So chance. So quick.

She could recall being in the library of Teminigru, face soggy as her cheeks felt fatter beneath the tears, bawling like a school girl (and rightly so deeming her outfit) right into her dirty palms. She'd heard the approach well before she'd seen him, figuring a low level demon was on its way to demolish her, her thoughts so morbid that she'd actually welcomed the sound, sighing away her depression at the possibility of a release.

Instead though, she'd focused on the strangest of sounds, hearing the clacking of his boots on the fine flooring, the speed and determination behind an ABSOLUTE motivation. He never waived or slowed or sped. He merely walked with intention, head lowered as he'd carelessly moved passed her, speaking words that she'd never forget.

"Giving up so easily?"

There was something in that strange moment that had caught her. It was a fleeting, silly idea but it gave her whatever strength was necessary to bend her scathed knees and crawl to her feet. The feeling was simply this: She was not alone.

United in vengeance, united in hate but wracked with motivation BEHIND that hate, she'd followed him thoughtlessly through the tower, another exchange never needed.

Dante had come home from Mallet Island just an angry ghost, the wounds of his encounter seen through yellowish, blackened rings around his eyes, his face pale and gaunt from exhaustion and booze. Strangely though, it was a wordless understanding between them, as she'd cradle his fallen head in her lap, that Vergil deserved to be mourned.

She would never have faulted him for it, still occasionally blinking tears down her face in a rain storm when she'd catch herself looking through glass as she'd thought of her father.

He'd been a bastard too. But she still loved him.

It was like loving a drug addict though. You excused them. All the faults in the world later and they still caught your breath but with one thought. Demonism was like a drug, she'd decided, one taste, one high and the rest seemed history.

Her father, her REAL father, had been a good man. How could she have ever hated him so truly without having loving him fervently before? One taste though, one good drug dealer, and the dad she'd loved so much turned into a raging addict, like so many addicts, doing anything for just one more hit.

She'd felt that way about Dante one night, pinched between him and the couch as he'd torn down her skirt, drunk on agony and cheap whiskey, the salt of his tears in her mouth as he feverishly kissed her throat and chest, begging for her.

A quick, clean, hateful life drowning in one another's sorrow.

It might have been perfect. It might have been sane. But it was a drug, a high she couldn't keep and so when the first week passed without his sighing voice on the other end, she'd closed her eyes in relief, fingers still absentmindedly touching the places he'd kissed almost painfully.

Now though, she realized it was painfully irritating to be unable to reach him, her eyes scanning the computer monitor as though she was angry at it.

Words were scrawled all over the pages and Lady seriously cursed herself for resorting to smoking and AOL Online News in order to obtain leads.

One story, though, had caught her attention, the possible existence of a serial rapist and murderer in Ireland, casually tossing female bodies off of the cliffs.

The story might have escaped her attention if it hadn't been for the fact that several SEVERAL of the victim's family and friends and even just witnesses in pubs had seen the women leave with a white haired man. Important as well were the oh-so-often rumors gallivanting throughout the Devil Hunter brigades that demon activity in Ireland was at an all time high and that something had to be done about it.

Though she knew in her heart of hearts that Dante would never be behind such brutal slayings, it went without saying that it was an interesting lead, even if he was only involved for the sheer attempts on his part to track the killer down.

Smashing her cigarette out, Lady checked the expiration on her passport before booking a ticket to Ireland.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you all for reading! For a while I was getting the impression no one really liked this story but thank you SO much to Bullet and Angelforver06 for the encouragement to press on! This chapter is definitely a big THANK YOU to you guys for taking the time out to inspire someone! Enjoy!**

The man referred to as Dante sighed, rolling his eyes as his arms crossed tightly over his chest, long legs stretched far out in front of him as he slumped in his chair.

It was an irritatingly tedious ritual that he was engaged in, 20 or so Devil Hunters surrounding a circular table in an awful white room, discussing the recent attacks occurring in Ireland. Their all-too-human voices sometimes raised in defiance at something another hunter had said, the screeches of their chairs making him wince when they'd jump to their feet at the littlest opposition to their ideas.

To him, they all looked exceedingly fragile, their outbursts no doubt an insecure attempt to hide that blaring fact. Clad in leather and steel, some had wild hair colors, blues and reds and even greens, their insides reflected on the outside. They were the outcasts of their species, though its protectors, unknown and even unaccepted in a world they strove endlessly to save.

As if knowing how detached they were from their own realities, they wore clothing that one could easily spot as "other worldly" decked out with weapons and swords easily visible in the day time.

"Dante" had finally admitted to Hero that he truly hated the color red, slamming the gift she'd given him into her hands and watching with mild satisfaction at the disbelief when she'd stared at the red leather jacket. Instead, he resolved to be positively boring, wearing mostly black leather pants and a tight black turtle neck, well defining his every muscular curve.

He liked the contrast of his white skin and hair, even more so that the dark color gave him even more attention as it seemed so opposite from what someone so positively "angelic" would wear.

Angelic. Ha!

He smirked slightly in his dark thoughts, drowning out the incessant bickering in the background, eyes landing on a new Devil Huntress he hadn't previously seen, gaze sliding down her arms and neck and chest, covered in green material. Patches of her tan flesh shown at her shoulders, a long Peacock feather braided into her gleaming blonde hair.

Her eyes were a soft, creamy green (very different from Hero's he noticed) their gaze darting to and from him as he was making her obscenely uncomfortable with his stare. He noticed this instantly, hiding his smile and feeling his fangs grow ever so slightly in his mouth, letting his tongue dart absentmindedly over them.

What WAS he exactly?

He knew from Hero's explanation that this Dante was part Demon and part Human. Though from her descriptions of him, he had obviously chosen to accept his Human side much more than his Demon half. The man that now bared Dante's name knew that this was COMPLETELY the opposite for himself.

He knew, for no apparent reason, that what he was doing was wrong. The slightest twinge of a conscience occasionally told him that in a previous life, he probably wouldn't have indulged in it quite so often. He knew that the humans, without question, believed that how he felt and what he craved was undoubtedly evil yet in that fact, he still relished the occasional murder, happy to feel the strands of his victim's hair in his clutch.

So he was evil. So the fuck what?

The world already had one proverbial boy scout in their beloved "hero" Dante. He didn't feel too obligated to totally fill those shoes at the moment.

He stretched his legs out further, yawning openly.

"I'm sorry, are we BORING you Dante?" A rude voice interrupted his thinking, "Dante's" eyes sliding over to behold a muscular man standing, his chair behind him as he raised to his full height, obviously trying to be intimidating.

"Actually," "Dante" said slyly, pushing his fingers though his silver hair. "You are."

The Devil Hunter made a surprised, "humph!" noise, flexing his muscles beneath his tanned, leather vest. The silvery demon observed him for a moment, looking at the dull color of his brown hair, the lines that kissed the sides of his eyes and the full body tan over wrinkling skin that told him this man was far along in his human years yet had (up to this point) survived to tell the tale.

He obviously felt he'd earned respect due to his age and, staring down at the immaculate devil in front of him that appeared about 29 years old, he pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation.

"These meetings are necessary," The Demon Hunter, Tazial Scott, informed the younger man angrily. "We have to eradicate the mass amount of demon activity in the area while there's still an Ireland standing in the ocean."

"None of this is necessary," The Demon finally stood, standing now taller than the 6'5 human. "None of YOU are necessary."He let his wild gaze fall on the insulted hunters around him, hearing their gasps of disapproval and daring any of them to do anything about it.

"Simply send me alone," He returned his gaze to Tazial, smiling arrogantly and cocking his head sideways. "And stay out of my way."

The older man looked shocked, speechless as he fumbled for words.

"Dante," came Hero's nearly motherly voice, caution in her words. "Tazial is right. You may be stronger than any of us," her eyes darted warningly to the human male. "but their numbers are simply too many for one person and your strength is NOT fully returned yet."

"Dante" felt himself growl deep in his throat at that, not knowing for sure if the humans had heard it or not. Despite the way his muscles gleamed and grew every day, he DID know that he had yet to dip into the vast well that was his complete power. Still, he didn't appreciate the fact that she'd announced it to these lesser morons, his anger dancing slightly in his chest.

"Fine," He finally breathed, smirking humorlessly at her. "Then you all try doing it without me."

He grabbed the black leather coat he'd draped over the back of his chair, nonchalantly cradling it in the crook of his arm before waltzing towards the door.

"That'll be entertaining to watch." He added before exiting the building.

He knew Hero was right on his heels, could feel her emotions pulsating from her pores as she came after him.

"You idiot!" She yelled, grabbing his arm to spin him her direction. "Do you ever THINK before you speak?"

"Apparently not." He answered dryly.

"Don't you get it Dante?" She searched his eyes, shaking her head. "You CAN'T do that! You CAN'T just crush their hopes and everything they stand and fight for!"

He rolled his eyes, pissed when she grabbed his face, having to tilt on her tip toes in order to reach him.

"Look at me," She growled. "Hey! Look at me! They don't HAVE your strength, ok? We get that. They don't HAVE your abilities and your immaculate heritage and all that other bullshit, ok? And they STILL fight."She paused, powerful green eyes searching the cold of his stare for any emotion to register.

"They STILL try even if they know it's a losing battle. They STILL fight even if they know they will ALL eventually be beaten BECAUSE they don't have your strength. Isn't that still something to be respected?"

The man just looked at her, searching her words for their meaning and blandly deciding she had something of a point.

"Wouldn't you fight for your people if they needed you, even if you were weaker? You cannot dash their efforts Dante. You cannot dash all they've lived and loved and lost and died for. You cannot tell them their will and fight is for nothing. Hope is ALL we humans have that keeps us standing. Hope is all that keeps us strong. We don't have anything else. You knew that once."

She let go of his face, sighing and continuing to shake her head.

"Try not to forget it ok?" She finally ended, letting her feet slide down off her tip toes.

They'd walked home without another word, the demon crudely snatching whatever delectable meal he'd been served by Montoya and stomping outside to eat alone. He furiously smashed the food into his mouth, chewing viciously as he stared ahead at nothing, letting her words reverberate in his head.

He hated that she was right. He hated how good she was and how much he wanted to tell her how COMPLETELY for nothing it all was. He wanted to shake her shoulders, to laugh at her, to tell her how completely doomed everything seemed.

He wanted to point out how futile those bumbling fools were, dressing like warriors when some of them didn't even look over the age of 18, trying so desperately to cling to ideas and dreams that weren't their own. He wanted to tell her how easy it would be to grab up the little pretty Demon Huntress he'd seen, tear the green material from her skin and make her as hallow and shallow and empty as he was.

God he hated when she was right!

"Hey buddy," came Montoya's kind voice behind him, a warm hand on his shoulder. "what's say we go for a walk, eh?"

"No thank you," The demon replied dryly, still chewing his food with a scowl. "I've had enough 'walking' for one day."

"Ahhhh come on," Montoya insisted, coming to sit next to the devil. "I think you and Hero need a break from one another and I need some exercise," the tan man smiled, giggling the pouch that was his belly, making the devil smile despite himself. "Look at this thing," Montoya continued, grabbing a handfull of his tummy and shaking it. "I better work on this puppy or the ladies will stop knocking on my door at all hours of the day."

The silver haired man had to let himself laugh a little, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Montoya always had a way about him that, in itself, was pure magic. As the demon felt he himself was completely cold and Hero was a tumbling fire, Montoya's magic was that he was simply warm. Simply inviting. Simply good without even trying to be so.

He sighed as he pushed himself up, agreeing for a short walk as Montoya's footsteps pattered through the streets and ally ways, talking about his childhood in Mexico and all of things he seemed determined to show "Dante" someday.

"There are dances in the streets," He was going on. "dresses of all colors swirling this way and that!"

He placed his hand on his tummy again, letting the other hand dance in the air as he feigned dancing with a partner, making music noises with his mouth.

"And the women, ohhhhh," He smiled widely. "Some of the women are so beautiful, you can't take your eyes off em'! And you don't even speak their language so you won't have to understand what they're saying!"

The demon couldn't wipe the smirk off his face, laughing as the Latino continued, telling everything they would do on their "trip" to Mexico.

"Hero told me you didn't enjoy the meeting very much tonight," Montoya suddenly spoke somberly, his eyes darting over towards "Dante". "Not in the mood eh?"

"I'm never in the mood," The demon dryly answered. "Did Hero send you on this little venture to "keep me in line"?"

"Hell no." Montoya answered, waving him away. "Hero doesn't even know I left the house."

"Hm." Was all the other man replied, walking through the darkest of allies with no fear whatsoever.

"She doesn't know you leave it every night either," Montoya suddenly added, the demon's footsteps stopping suddenly as he peered down at the other man. "Yeah, that's right. I know. I know what you do when you leave too."

The half devil let this information sink in, minutes ticking by like hours as he realized Montoya must have followed behind him without his knowledge, seeing and knowing everything he'd tried to keep secret. They stood silent in a dark alley way, the closest light far away and casting shadows over the taller man's face.

"Then why didn't you say anything?" The demon wondered aloud. "Why didn't you try to stop me?"

"Stop you?" Montoya's eyes were wide. "With WHO? With WHAT?"

The silver haired man smiled at this, nodding.

"I was just reading in the paper the other day and got curious if the 'white haired bastard' was you. And wipe that smirk off your face. This isn't a joke."

The demon's smile fell, replaced with an impatient scowl.

"Look I don't know why you do it anymore than I can stop you from doing it. I get that." Montoya told him. "But if this is your means of trying to understand who you are, it's wrong. It's wrong Dante and I think deep down, if you search hard enough, you believe that too.

"People don't need to die for you to mesh out your confusion. I don't know what you ever told Hero or what you've ever told other people. I can only tell you what you once, long ago, told me. And that's that when you were a teenager, you went through a lot of shit and made some seriously bad mistakes. You hurt people and you killed people. But it's going to happen. You're two different species pushed into one body. Demons don't understand your motives anymore than humans can understand them.

"You're going to fuck up. You're going to run on emotions you don't understand with no memory to control them. We learn morals through time and we learn how to control our impulses through growing and experience. You don't have any of that. You're a demon in a human male body with no memory of a past. But other people shouldn't have to pay for it and I know you agree.

"People don't need to die for you to understand that you belong here. Girls don't need to die for you to realize that you are a man, not a monster."

The demon just looked at him, weighing the logic behind his words.

He silently nodded, surprised and confused that, after all he'd done, for no apparent reason, Montoya was still on his side. Not that there would have been anything anyone could do to the contrary, that was true. But still.

"Will you promise me one thing though?" Montoya asked, laying his hand on the other's shoulder.

"What?" "Dante" asked, face serious as he felt the warmth from the human's flesh sink through the material of his shirt.

"Stop." The shorter man said. "Stop doing this. I know you don't always understand now, but you will someday. I don't want you to always live with the regret you dealt with the first time around. This is a second chance for you man. Not everyone gets those."


	8. Chapter 8

A week wore on and Montoya's and Hero's words had not left his thoughts. He heard them over and over as he watched the pathetic humans try so hard to defeat Demons (ones he could have punted with his foot and destroyed). He watched their brows cover in sweat, the veins protruding from their foreheads as they used every bit of effort in their weak little bodies.

He even managed to watch them fall, wounds not healing as quickly as needed and heavy human bodies landing on the ground either dead or dying.

And he watched them do it the next day, after having seen their comrades succumb to humanism, they still managed to stand one more time on the battle field, hope poisoning any logic.

"_Isn't that to be respected?"_

What was it that beat in their hearts that he didn't have? What made them say "fuck you" to mortality and stand before that which was so much greater than themselves? Had he known he didn't stand a chance, would he stop trying?

These questions perturbed him, buzzing around like little bees in his brain.

He found himself sitting beside a bed in a hospital, staring down at none other than Tazial Scott, the older man's chest rising and falling quickly. He'd waited until all the other Devil Hunters had left the small, private building, tears clinging to their cheeks. He'd waited until Hero had left, knowing that she saw him lurking in the shadows, leaving him respectfully to whatever it was he intended to do.

"No hope." Was what the doctors and nurses were whispering as they scurried out of the room, leaving him behind with the sound of Tazial's labored breathing.

"Dante" sat without a word in the room, his eyes never even looking at the human man, just listening as he tried to understand it all. Why did the human's paint hospital walls so white? Was this their idea of a clean passage to Heaven? What was Tazial experiencing?

"It's ok," The man suddenly breathed, hand over the bloody hole that was pitifully covered with bandages. "It's about time."

"Are you scared?" The demon asked, wondering why his mouth hadn't stopped the question.

"I've known," Tazial panted between breaths, "this was coming….. For a long….. Time."

"Then why not stop it?" The other asked, cringing slightly when fresh blood began to seep into the white coverings, spreading over the man's chest and shortening his time. "Why not let yourself live like the others do? Why not try to enjoy your time instead of fight against it?"

"You wouldn't… understand." The man breathed out, closing his eyes and wincing in pain. He twisted in agony, clutching the blankets closer as if he were cold. His tan flesh seemed such a contrast, the scene appearing more gory with the bloody white sheets.

"Try me." Was all "Dante" could whisper, no haughtiness in his words. Honestly, he just wanted the chance to understand.

Tazial glanced to his side under heavy eyelids, coughing and watching as the demon looked away respectfully when blood pooled on the older man's lower lip.

"Someone….." he coughed. "Someone has to try."

"But you know it's fruitless," The other shook his head as if disappointed, silver, young eyes seeming to plead for understanding. "You know that you will never win. You know that the longer you try, the more surely you'll fall to it. Why not just try to enjoy your time when you can?"

"For…" Blood sprayed into the air as the older man coughed, time becoming short now. "….. Her."

He patted his breast pocket tiredly, gesturing for the demon to pull something out of it, closing his eyes as the time drew nearer.

"Dante" frowned as he searched softly with his fingers, attempting not to cause much more pain to the dying man as he pulled out a small piece of paper. It was an envelope with a picture within, the younger man's lips letting out a hitched breath as he unfolded it.

"She's your daughter." He spoke, holding the picture of a much younger Hero in his hands.

Tazial nodded as best he could.

"Why isn't she here with you then?" Was all the younger could manager to think of, tracing the portions of her youthful face, wild hair bounding away in the wind.

"I asked…. Her not… to be."

"Dante's" thoughts ran wild, wondering why this had remained a secret from him. Wondering why Hero had not denied her father's wishes and remained at his side as seemed a ritual for humans. He wondered why anyone would continue such a periless voyage, even if they had to have known, eventually it would just lead here; broken bones and tattered body begging to escape life.

"Dante," The man suddenly breathed, letting his hand fall to his side. It was a gesture, a familiar gesture and despite himself, the young Demon sighed, gritting his teeth as he took the man's hand into his own. He felt the fading strength in his grip, felt the dried blood and knew Tazial was now suffering beyond words.

"You should go," The younger man spoke, as if to tell Tazial that it was time to LET go. That it was OK to let go.

"You….." Tazial looked into his eyes. He suddenly pulled his hand from "Dante's", pointing strangely towards the other's chest, as if pointing directly to his heart. "You can be…. A good man."

Suddenly, the demon felt himself swallow, a feeling of tightness gripping his chest, as if someone was holding on to it or something. He raised his hand to touch the area, wondering if this was some sort of futile attack from the human, some sort of voodoo ritual he knew some of the hunter's indulged in.

It felt as though he couldn't swallow, his eyes blinking tightly with frustration, shaking his head and looking at the human for an answer.

He received none, knowing as he saw the paleness drift like a silent wave over Tazial's face that this was no attack and that the leader of the Demon Hunters was leaving the world soon.

With the strangest sense of desperation, he clutched the man's hand with both of his own, thinking oddly that maybe he could keep him there for just a little while longer. So many questions, so little time.

"What if I can't be though," He whispered desperately. "What if it just isn't in me?"

Then, the oddest thing happened and lazily, Tazial actually smiled, laughing tiredly as his chest rose and fell.

"You're part…. human ain't ya?" He let one eye open just slightly, grasping the demon's hand just a little firmer. "It's in there."

He slowly drifted, his hand becoming limp in "Dante's" grasp, life leaving the tired, wrecked body.

"Hope," Tazial breathed with his last breath. "It's all about hope."

**A/N: Just want to send a shout out to my friends Bullet and BlackIceDevil-121 for he awesome reviews! Thank you so much! I know it is an odd story and I like to keep the pace a little slow so that Vergil's transformation seems a bit more realistic and his feelings are appropriate for the experiences he faces in his new life. Thanks again for reading!**


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